


All the Flowers of Gilead

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Light, Smoke and Mirrors [3]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She is relieved when Steven does not ask if she’d like to accompany him to his chambers. He rarely does, nowadays. But for the first time, she is glad. The skin of her hands is still tingling where Marten has touched her.It’s been a pleasant illusion, nothing more. It won’t be more. It can’t. She can’t let it be more.That night, she dreams of music and dancing and Marten’s eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

She is relieved when Steven does not ask if she’d like to accompany him to his chambers. He rarely does, nowadays. But for the first time, she is glad. The skin of her hands is still tingling where Marten has touched her.

Years ago, had she felt something like this, she would have danced across her bedroom, maybe humming under her breath. But she’s a grown woman now, not a girl. She washes her face, takes the pins out of her hair, hangs the dress over the back of a chair and changes into a nightgown. Just allows herself a small pleasure of picking one that’s silk and lace.

She does not fall onto the bed, pressing both hands against her heart, which is still beating a little too fast. No, she walks over and sits on the mattress, then lies down, throwing a quilt over her legs.

It’s been a pleasant illusion, nothing more. It won’t be more. It can’t. She can’t let it be more.

That night, she dreams of music and dancing and Marten’s eyes. And roses. For some reason, they’re dancing in a field of roses, under a chandelier that seems electrical but turns out to be made of stars.

In the morning she isn’t quite certain if it was just a dream, or his magic. If he would have the audacity to do that.

She comes across him later that day, when she’s walking in the garden. He bows – just a little, he’s never been subservient – and smiles at her. It’s an invitation.

One she doesn’t accept. Because it’s broad daylight, and her husband may walk nearby any moment, or one of his friends. Because she’s _married_ in the first place. (Not the first.) Because she’s a lady and he may be the advisor to the Tet of the Gun, but he’s a commoner. (A clever wizard.) Because she has a son and she’s a grown woman and she can’t. (Doesn’t have enough courage.) That’s the reason. (That’s the reason.)

Gabrielle straightens. For a moment, she isn’t sure of her own thoughts. And then she notices the look on Marten’s face and the spark in his eyes, recognizes the voice that has brushed against her mind like a purring cat, and her hand flies up. She wants to slap him. To wipe that expression off his face.

But then she remembers that she’s a lady, and that cold, polite contempt is a lady’s best weapon. So she lowers her hand and instead raises her head higher. Which accomplishes what she wanted, just not in the way she was expecting.

Because Marten laughs. Gabrielle is certain she’s never heard him laugh before. And then he puts a hand over his heart and bows in apology, and he’s not laughing anymore. There’s just a very faint smile on his lips.

She waves her hand dismissively. Yesterday, for an instant, she hoped, and at night she dreamt… But if that’s the way it would be, she will not think of this man again, not even look at him. But he saw you, a voice whispers in her thoughts, and this time it’s her own. Gabrielle firmly tells it to shut up.

She’s about to turn on her heel and leave when he reaches out, just as he did last evening. His hand is empty… and then he flicks his fingers and suddenly he’s holding a rose. For some reason, she was expecting a red one, but it’s pale pink, the color of her cheeks when she’s blushing. It takes all of her self-control not to turn scarlet.

“I cry your pardon,” Marten says quietly. He’s not laughing.

Gabrielle hesitantly reaches for the rose. It’s real in her hand, solid, and when she brings it to her face, it smells divine. Like all the roses of Gilead on a warm summer evening.

“It takes more than a flower to win my pardon,” she replies calmly, even though she feels like she’s about to faint.

“I won’t forget that,” he promises, in High Speech.

What a peculiar way to put it. Anyone else would simply say they would remember. But a phrase spoken like that has another meaning. That he will not forget _her_ , not only her words.

It’s unnerving, what a skilled observer he is. It’s exhilarating that someone would pay so much attention to her. So much time and effort, just to know her wishes.

She looks aside, at the blooming roses. The garden is full of them at this time of year. Steven has never given her flowers.

It’s a small thing, she thinks on the way back to her rooms. It’s doesn’t matter. Steven’s a good man and a just lord, that’s what’s important. Except that his goodness doesn’t help much when he’s busy and she’s lonely.

It doesn’t matter, she repeats, determined. She will not. Not for all the flowers of Gilead.

When she opens the door to her chambers, it starts raining roses. It’s an illusion, she knows, because they shimmer and become half-transparent when they touch anything, and slowly turn into golden dust when they land on the floor. But for a moment, before they vanish, she is standing in a sea of flowers, and it’s so unreal and wonderful that she laughs.

She glances over her shoulder, certain she will see Marten behind her, but the hall is empty. A gleam at the window catches her attention, and she turns. For a moment, she glimpses his smiling face in the glass.

Gabrielle shakes her head and walks into her rooms and closes the door behind her. She goes to her bedroom – if her husband should visit her, he most likely won’t cross its threshold – and puts the rose on the vanity table. For the rest of the afternoon, she does her best to never look at it. But she does not throw it away.

That night, Steven visits her – just to talk to her and sleep by her side, nothing more. He puts an arm around her and kisses her goodnight, and Gabrielle sighs, because she knows it means he’s going away again. But at least he is here now.

The rose vanished when he knocked on the door, both the flower and the smell that had seemed to cling to everything – her hair, her gown, her bed sheets. She just shrugged and thought nothing of it. Almost nothing.

But in the morning, when Gabrielle wakes up alone to the sweet flowery scent filling the room, the rose is still on her vanity table, right where she put it yesterday. Fresh and beautiful and in bloom. (Beautiful and in bloom and oh, how sweet her blush.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes it’s an illusory rose, much sweeter-scented than ordinary flowers. Sometimes it’s a star gleaming through her window on a cloudy night. Sometimes old poems written across the glass with drops of rain.

Small things, easy to hide, easy to overlook. Never when her husband in near. Small things she could easily brush aside if she wanted.

Gabrielle doesn’t talk to Marten, too proud to let him win her favor so easily, but she never refuses his gifts. Because for the first time in her life, she is courted.

I’m not doing anything wrong, she thinks, her finger tracing the letters on the glass. It’s all meaningless. A few smiles, that’s all she gives, nothing more.

A few smiles and her heart and soul, because for the first time in eight years, there is someone who cares enough to learn what she likes, and then fulfills her small wishes. Color, light. Small things. Things that make life bearable.

* * *

 

Marten finds her in the garden house one evening, where she’s almost fallen asleep over a book. He says nothing, not to her, at least – he catches a firefly and whispers something to it and lets it out, and then there are dozens of tiny lights dancing around them.

She can’t help but smile. Marten just watches, leaning against one of the wooden posts.

“Wouldn’t you wish to dance, too?” he asks.

Her eyebrows arch. “In the air?”

A corner of his lips curls up. “On the ground. Not all I do is magic.”

“Why do you do it?” she asks, the evening chill creeping over her skin. “Your magic? This magic?” she raises her voice a little. “That…”

“I thought I made it clear enough,” he interrupts.

The boldness of this man, Gabrielle thinks incredulously. But isn’t it why she noticed him in the first place? Because he had the nerve to ask Steven Deschain, the lord of Gilead, for a dance with his wife.

She gets up from the bench. “If you wish to speak, speak,” she says coldly.

He walks over to her, so close that the hem of her gown is brushing against his legs. Her heartbeat quickens. Even her husband’s friends keep more distance. But Marten doesn’t think her an unapproachable lady. (A woman. A rose in bloom.)

“I do not wish to speak,” he says, leaning in slowly. His eyes are dark silk and promise.

And then there are joyous cries at the gates and the tramping of hooves, and Gabrielle hurries to greet her husband. She cautiously slips past Marten… but doesn’t push him away.

* * *

 

She spends the night in Steven’s bed. He is tired after the journey, but politeness forbids him from refusing her. It’s… pleasant, to be in his arms again. It’s… nice, to fall asleep at his side. It’s… sweet, to be woken by a warm kiss.

None of this makes her feel that heat which fills her in Marten’s presence, even though he’s barely even touched her, while her husband knows her intimately… He doesn’t, says a whisper in her mind, he doesn’t know you at all. The voice is her own, and all the more powerful for it.

When she goes back to her chambers in the morning, there is a rose on her vanity table. It must have got there with the use of magic, but the flower itself is ordinary, not magical. A rose, one of those climbing up the wooden poles and filigree screens of the garden house.

Gabrielle hides her face among the petals with a deep, shuddering sigh. Next time her husband leaves… Next time… She shakes her head and throws the rose to the floor.

Next time, she will ask Steven to stay behind and keep her company.

* * *

 

A noble lady should be stately and should always walk. The wife of the lord of Gilead should probably be graceful enough to float in the air. Gabrielle runs along the hall, through the gates and across the courtyard, loose hair and wide skirts trailing behind her.

She stops only when she notices Steven and his tet, most of them already mounted, some, like her husband, just getting onto their horses. She gasps, trying to get enough air into her lungs.

“My lord husband!” she cries. They never call each other by name in public.

Steven jumps down from the stirrup and turns away from the horse and reaches out to take her hands, smiling faintly. Gabrielle thinks that propriety be damned and puts her arms around his neck.

“Don’t go,” she pleads. “Send your friends. Just once.” She pulls away to look into his eyes. “Don’t go, Steven.” Don’t go, she thinks, because I’m afraid what I might do if you’re not here.

He tenses, uncomfortable with this display of affection, even though his tet glances away politely, some smiling. They will probably tease him about it later. She doesn’t care. But he does.

Steven takes a step back, hands on her waist holding her firmly in place. “Be safe,” he says and kisses her on the lips, but it’s dry and formal, a kiss between a lord and lady rather than a husband and wife.

I’d rather be sane, Gabrielle thinks desperately. She’s drowning in solitude. She needs air. Someone to hold her up above the surface.

Her fingers, hidden in the folds of her gown, curl into fists. But she smiles pleasantly and curtsies. “Be safe, husband, and return swiftly.” Her good wishes are honest.

She watches him mount his horse and raise his hand, a signal for departure. She watches them ride out of the gates. He never looks back.

If he was more like some of his friends, he might have turned his horse for a moment and blown her a kiss. What would it matter if people laughed?

It matters to him, and Gabrielle tries to respect that. She only wishes he would be as considerate of what matters to her.

* * *

 

Marten is in the garden. Unlike the last time, it’s apparent he’s been waiting for her. But when he reaches out an empty hand to craft her another rose, Gabrielle slaps his palm away. There’s the sound of shattering glass, and the broken spell bursts into golden sand and sparks.

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, blinking back tears, then turns, ready to run into the solitude of her chambers.

“You are alone, Gabrielle.”

His voice stops her in her track, frozen to the spot. For a moment, she wants nothing more than to let him coax her into this, accept his repeated invitation and just give in. She will not.

“Leave me.” She looks at him over her shoulder, her head bowed and face hidden behind the veil of hair. “If you’re honest in this, leave me.”

“It’s not what you want.”

Gabrielle straightens. “It’s what the wife of your _dinh_ commands you to do. Or have you forgotten the face of your father?”

“I have,” he replies calmly. “Sometimes, with some fathers, there is no honor in remembering.”

That gives her a pause. But she refuses to dwell on the implications of his words.

“Then don’t do me dishonor by making me forget mine.”

* * *

 

That night, Gabrielle can’t sleep. The loneliness is suffocating, and when she weeps it feels as if each new sob will be the last, as if she can’t get enough air. But she stays faithful.

This time. She is walking broken glass and if someone will not lift her up soon, she will slowly bleed to death. And no one will notice. (Someone would.)

“Get out of my mind,” she hisses, anger blinding like a flash of lightning and passing just as swiftly. “If you love me, leave me,” she whispers into the pillow. “Please, Marten.”

The last magical rose lying on her vanity table dissolves into water and starts trickling down onto the floor. And the sound of dripping water is what finally lulls her into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time she hides from the storm in the garden house, her hair and gown are damp, and there are roses along the path where she ran – she dropped half of what she’d gathered. She raises the remaining flowers to her face. They smell of rain and sweetness.

Gabrielle chides herself quietly. She should have paid more attention, she should have listened to the old housekeeper’s warning that it would rain in the afternoon. Because it doesn’t look as if it was to stop raining anytime soon, and she doesn’t want to ruin her dress, nor her shoes. They’re new, a gift from Steven’s last journey. A proof he tries to remember. So should she.

There’s a dark silhouette far at the castle gates, and Gabrielle stiffens, recognizing Marten. Prays that he wouldn’t notice her… But he probably came here looking for her. Maybe Vannay sent him. Or Roland. Think of Roland, she reminds herself.

She was expecting Marten would use some magic. But he merely walks across the path, never stepping on any of the dropped roses. When he reaches the garden house, he is dry.

“You will catch a cold if you stay here too long, my lady.”

She is not his lady and he should not call her thus, but it’s better than hearing her name from his lips.

“I already have,” she replies, thinking back to their last talk. To how he was right.

“A little cold is nothing that can’t be healed,” he says. There a small smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just sometimes you need fever to fight it.”

Gabrielle shakes her head. He heeded her words and left her alone, as she’d asked. Does that mean he loves her? How is she to recognize this kind of love is she’s never experienced it?

“We should go back,” Marten says, letting his comment pass, forgotten. “They’re looking for you.”

“I know. But… My clothes…” Gabrielle gestures downwards, where the toes of her shoes peek out from under the hem of her gown.

“Worry not, lady.” Before she can realize what’s going on, he lifts her up.

She has been avoiding touching him ever since their dance, and even getting too close ever since their last meeting, and now suddenly she is in his arms, hands on his shoulders to keep balance, a few flowers in her lap, and face so close to his neck she can smell his skin. Rain and smoke and roses and thunder. She closes her eyes, aware that she is blushing but unable to do anything about it. The only man who’s ever held her thus was her husband, on their wedding day.

Marten carries her across the garden. It’s still raining, but it seems the drops just pass him by and hurry straight into the ground. When they reach the castle gates, he gently lets her down. The roses spill onto the floor.

He kneels and pick them all up and offers the bouquet to her. The flowers smell of rain and thunder. Of him, Gabrielle thinks. Her cheeks are hot.

“I can’t.”

Marten gets up, and the roses turn to water and drip down his palms. “It’s just flowers, _sai_ Deschain.”

It physically hurts when he calls her that.

Gabrielle meets his eyes, suddenly calm. “It’s never just flowers, with you.” She knows the words for truth the moment she speaks them. “It’s never ‘just’ anything.”

She was expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t.

“How would you know that, I wonder. Ah! Isn’t the same true for thee, lady?”

“Don’t play games with me, wizard.”

“This is not a game.” He smiles briefly. “It’s called courtship. But how would you know that?”

She tries to slap him, but he’s too fast, and catches her wrist before her palm connects with his face. Gabrielle tilts her chin up.

“And how would _you_ know?” she asks, her politeness stinging.

Marten brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. It’s merely a brush. It makes her tingle all over, down to the tips of her toes.

“I know many things,” he murmurs.

One word, that’s all it will take, one more word and she will shatter into pieces. He doesn’t say it.

“Keep them to yourself.” It’s not a command. It’s not a plea. Just a resigned suggestion of a woman who has come to the end of herself, and is not sure which of the two ways out scares her more.

He says nothing, just lets go of her hand. Then his palm touches her face, fingertips stroking across her cheek. Gabrielle closes her eyes and lets herself weep. For her own lack of courage and weak will and the loss of dignity.

“There is no dignity in love,” he whispers into her ear. “Nor in the lack of it.”

She should tell him there is also no dignity in being unfaithful to her husband. She should tell him many things.

“Not here,” she breaths. “Not now.” Then she breaks free from his embrace, shaking her head, her cheeks burning in shame, mortified by what she’s just said. “No! Not ever. Don’t.”

“Why won’t you let another love you if your husband doesn’t?” His eyes are dark silk and temptation, but his voice is rational. He must know it will work better.

“Because it wouldn’t be just love, not with you,” she answers, suddenly certain of it. “Can you even love, Marten? Anything but your magic? Can you even love your magic?”

“Love has many faces, Gabrielle.”

“Then I will settle for the one that belongs to my husband.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gabrielle tries to be faithful. She really tries.

She tries to focus on her son, to see Roland more often. But they have very little to talk about, and he seems uncomfortable in her presence. I wasn’t a good mother, Gabrielle thinks. She’s made a mistake somewhere along the way, perhaps more than one. It’s too late to fix it.

She tries to spend time with her husband, as they used to, while they were newlyweds. Asks Steven to let her sleep in his bed, asks so often that he finally notices something is off.

His brow furrows as he looks at her with concern. And then he smiles gently. Tries to; his face was never meant for gentle smiles.

“We already have a son, Gabrielle,” he says soothingly, squeezing her shoulder. “I am not going to send you away. Never think that.”

Gabrielle blinks away tears and forces a smile. She wants to scream. “I’ve never thought that,” she manages, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Steven looks into her eyes, more closely, and a for a moment she hopes. They had a good beginning, after all, such a good beginning, and maybe it’s not too late…

“I’m not going to ever take any other woman to my bed. You have my word for it.” He kisses her forehead. “Go to your rooms and get some sleep. You need rest. I will make sure no one will disturb you.”

Something inside her dies. He tries to tend to her comfort, but misunderstands her completely. And she has no more words of explanation to give. Not when she’s asked for his company outright, and he refused to listen.

* * *

 

She stumbles down the hall, leaning against the walls from time to time, whenever she feels she’s about to collapse. And then she takes a turn and stumbles upon Marten.

He looks at her cheeks, streaked with tears, at her trembling lips. Notices the anguish in her eyes. She hasn’t made a sound, but she’s certain he’s heard her silent scream.

They are in the hall and anyone could walk in on them at any point. Maybe that is why he is reluctant to touch her.

“Do you wish me to leave?” he asks quietly, fully aware of the power held within each word.

She’s aware of that, too. There is no dignity in love, Gabrielle thinks. Nor in the lack of it. “No. Don’t.”

He takes her face in his hands and kisses the tears off her eyelashes.

She looks up at him. She is trembling. “Please, Marten…” She is not even sure what she’s asking for. But doesn’t he know her wishes? (Your wishes. Your desires. Your dreams.)

“Not here,” he whispers, shushing, soothing. “Not now.” His fingers keep stroking her cheeks and hair, and her skin tingles wherever he touches. “Not when you’re like this.”

“A mess?” she asks, smiling bitterly.

“Distressed,” he corrects. “Give yourself some time, Gabrielle. To think. To dream. To blossom.”

* * *

 

She sleeps, she rests. Makes peace with the thought that her son is growing up and their ways must part. That the fairy tale she could have had with her husband will never come to be. That Steven is trying to do what he can, needlessly, because it would have been enough if he’d just listened. But she no longer has anything more to say other that polite nothings they’ve been exchanging for years.

That’s when she understands why Marten didn’t take advantage of her that day. It would have been so easy, even without the help of magic. But then she would have come to her senses, and given in to remorse and guilt. Without his magic, it would have been one night. He wants more than one night. The very thought makes her heart beat faster.

And now she is free to do this. She will never be free of guilt, of obligations to her husband, but now she feels free enough to pursue her own happiness. Or if not that, at least to seek shards of joy where she can. To look for something _._ Anything.

She gives herself time. Because she doesn’t want to risk that much, and start an affair when her husband is home. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe reason.

She gives herself time to dream of roses and fireflies and words on the glass. To imagine how magic would taste in a kiss. To imagine his scent on her sheets and his hands on her skin. To imagine how he would say her name. (Like a most exquisite spell.)

* * *

 

Predictably, she finds him in the garden. Predictably, he is waiting.

They walk side by side among the roses, without touching. Nothing inappropriate. Being the lord of Gilead’s advisor, who should he talk to in the _dinh_ ’s absence if not his wife? That is what he tells her, but Gabrielle cringes at the mention of her husband.

For a long time, they walk in silence. He does no magic, except for the faint wind that brings her the smell of roses, and finally she smiles.

But then she grows somber and starts talking, about her worries and the rifts in her marriage and her loneliness. Not because Marten doesn’t know any of this. But because she has to find an outlet for all those thoughts that have been suffocating her for months.

And he is willing to listen.

That’s when they reach the garden house. Marten stops. Holds his hand out to her – an invitation. Just like months ago at the ball. And just like months ago, she lightly puts her fingers on his palm.

The first taste of his lips is sweet honey and poison. Gabrielle thinks she could get drunk on it. It’s poison because she shouldn’t be letting another man kiss her – she might have decided to accept his advances, to accept her own feelings, but it doesn’t quite silence the voice of her conscience. She shouldn’t be kissing him back, but she cannot stop herself. Because his kiss is intoxicating, honey and smoke and roses – always roses – and an electric undercurrent that must be the taste of his magic.

When they part to catch their breaths, she feels lightheaded. Her cheeks are burning, her hair is in disarray, and if anyone found them… It’s too much, too soon.

“Nothing more than kisses,” he murmurs, mouth tracing the outline of her ear. “Nothing more,” he repeats against her neck.

She gives in. It matters so little, when she’s betrayed her husband in her thoughts a dozen times already.

The first time Gabrielle betrays her husband in flesh is in broad daylight, behind the veil of blooming pink roses. Marten’s hands touch her ankles and lift the hem of her gown. When his lips ghost up her thigh, she hides her blush among the flowers.

Nothing more than kisses, he promised. Gabrielle presses a hand across her mouth to stifle a cry, grasps at the carved wooden post to keep herself standing. He didn’t lie. She simply never imagined that kind of kisses even existed.

* * *

 

It feels utterly wrong to have another man take off the gown that was a gift from her husband. To have another man in her bed. To let another take the pins out of her hair and spread it over her back like a cloak.

It feels wonderful to be touched this way, as if she was a mystery to be unraveled, a treasure to be discovered. She opens and blooms under his kisses like a flower, unfurls under his caresses like a ribbon when his hands draw lacy patterns across her body.

She cries out when he bites her shoulder, more in surprise than in pain. Steven has never… but she doesn’t want to think of her husband right now. There’s nothing in the world but red rose petals on white bed sheets, Marten’s arms around her and the heat of his kiss as his tongue soothes her skin.

“So you wouldn’t forget,” he whispers into her ear, in High Speech.

She couldn’t, even if she ever wanted to. It’s impossible to forget how it feels to know real passion for the first time, and to be desired just for being herself. (A rose in bloom.)

He puts his hand on her breast, as if he was trying to capture her heart in his palm. (I already hold it.)

“Please, Marten…”

“Whatever you wish, whenever you say that. Your own little magic spell, Gabrielle.”


	5. Chapter 5

The stone is cold and rough against her back; she will have small scratches all over her shoulder blades later. Her conscience tells her she should be ashamed. Perhaps she would be more ashamed if those little reminders didn’t make her feel desired, even on those lonely evenings when her husband is home but she is alone in a cold bed.

Gabrielle sighs, her head falling back. “Am I whoring myself, Marten?”

“What a peculiar question.” He laughs. “And peculiar timing.” It is, with his mouth on her shoulder and his hips in the cradle of her thighs. “Why do you think I’m the right person to answer?”

“Should I ask my husband?” she asks crisply.

For a moment, she wonders if this is how it had been for Steven with other women. There had probably been more than one; he’d had quite a few years before they were wed – almost as much time as they’ve been married.

Marten’s lips leave her neck. He looks into her eyes. “He would know,” he says, matter-of-factly. “About whores.”

She recoils as if he’s just slapped her across the face. “Is that how you think of me?”

“No. No, not you. We’re lovers.”

“Are you telling me it’s better?”

“Isn’t it more honest, to do this out of love and not just lust?” His mouth curves into a smile.

“So it would have been better if he’d left a girl behind…”

“More honest doesn’t mean better.”

For a moment, she’s silent. “That’s what I would be in a tale, wouldn’t I?” she asks at last. “A whore. That’s what tales call unfaithful wives.”

“Then would I be the evil sorcerer, seducing innocent women?” He laughs. “Of course, there are certain advantages of bedding someone else’s wife, but...”

Gabrielle freezes, terrified. Mortified by the sudden, overwhelming shame.

“‘Twas only a jest,” he soothes. “And don’t fret. That won’t happen.” His palm strokes her abdomen. “I wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

She exhales, a little relieved, but still anxious. Tenses again when his hand moves lower.

“Your husband would know, then. It would end the things between us,” he murmurs against her ear. “And I have no wish for… this… to end anytime soon, Gabrielle.”

She’s trembling in his arms and in fever. It’s one and the same. “You’ve… never answered… my question.”

“We’re lovers.” His mouth is back at her shoulder, leaving another little mark.

“That’s not…”

His hand moves from the nape of her neck to the back of her head, and he turns her face towards his. “And how do you feel?”

His eyes are black silk and temptation. And truths she doesn’t want to know about herself. But that particular truth is not among them.

“Less lonely,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around Marten’s shoulders, wrapping her fingers around a strand of his hair as she leans her forehead against his. “Loved,” she says softly. “Is that the truth?”

He pulls her against him. “It’s your truth.”

“That’s not…”

“That’s the only truth there is, Gabrielle,” he interrupts, carrying her to the bed. “To each their own.” He lays her down on the sheets that smell of roses. Her bed always smells of roses when he’s with her. “But here’s mine.” He looks into her eyes. “You’re giving yourself. Out of love.”

“And how’s that different?” she ask on a sigh, when he kisses the hollow of her throat.

“In every way.”

That’s the truth. Gabrielle knows it in her heart and in her bones, and in every nerve of her body. It’s different. She knows because it’s never been like that before, with her husband.

“Then love me, Marten.”

* * *

 

“If I’m giving myself… doesn’t that mean you have me?”

He laughs against her shoulder. “It certainly looks like I’m…”

“Marten! This is not another jest!” She pushes him away. “Not for me.” She moves to the edge of the bed and sits, curling her legs underneath her and wrapping herself in a sheet. “If it’s a jest for you, then leave me and don’t come back.”

He shifts to sit behind her, hands touching her shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles across her skin. Gabrielle wonders if it’s a spell of some kind, when he does it.

“It’s not a jest.” He slips an arm around her waist. “You don’t believe me?”

“I’m not sure I believe myself, sometimes.” With a sigh, she leans against him.

“It’s many things,” he says finally, warm breath fanning over her ear and neck. “But not a jest.”

She turns towards him. “That’s your truth?”

“More than truth, love.” His kiss has the sweet taste of certainty. “A fact.”

* * *

 

She can see the change whenever she looks in the mirror. Her face has lost some of its pallor, her eyes aren’t so dull anymore. No wonder her husband notices it, too, when he comes to greet her after his return home.

Steven smiles slowly as he watches her. “You seem better, Gabrielle. I thought some rest would do you good.” His palm cups her cheek. “You worry too much.”

If you only knew the things I worry about, Gabrielle thinks bitterly, in shame, briefly leaning into his touch.

“Just look at yourself . My little flower is blooming again.” He leans over and kisses her temple. “I’m glad.”

You sweet, kind, blind fool, Gabrielle thinks. Guilt stabs at her heart. But it will pass. She knows. It will pass as soon as she’s in Marten’s arms again. Those are the only moments she forgets it and breathes freely.

“Thank you, Steven.” She smiles back and gives him a soft peck on the cheek. It’s reserve, but he will mistake it for shyness. “I feel better.”


End file.
